Halfway down the steep ridge behind our house I am carving out a level spot where I will plant a bench. On cool mornings I’ll lean forward and peer between the beech and hickory, Dutchman Creek ripples below, a pileated raps and quarrels above. On warm evenings lengthening into dusk I will lean back, tentative step of unseen deer behind, mosquito countertenor in my ears. Join me as we entertain small thoughts.
. . . . .
Weekend before last I laid down the mattock and dug with my hands. Scooping up dirt to mold a shallow campfire pit, I lifted something soft. An underground fungus, the sort that pigs sniff out? Rare petrified bear scat from a wilder epoch? What?
I opened my hands – a toad, inert in its hibernation. It cracked one eye the smallest slit and looked up at me. “Just five more minutes?” I found a safer spot between the beech tree roots and tucked him in with moss.
. . . . .
Adam & Eve Orchid
Jalalu’ddin Rumi
(translated by R.A.Nicholson)
If there be any lover in the world, O Moslems, ‘tis I.
If there be any believer, infidel, or Christian hermit, ‘tis I.
The wine-dregs, the cupbearer, the minstrel, the harp and the music,
The beloved, the candle, the drink and the joy of the drunken – ‘tis I.
The two-and-seventy creeds and sects in the world
Do not really exist: I swear by God that every creed and sect – ‘tis I.
Earth and air and water and fire – knowest thou what they are?
Earth and air and water and fire, nay, body and soul too – ‘tis I.
Truth and falsehood, good and evil, ease and difficulty from first to last,
Knowledge and learning and ascetism and piety and faith – ‘tis I.
The fire of Hell, be assured, with its flaming limbos,
Yes, and Paradise and Eden and houris – ‘tis I.
This earth and heaven with all that they hold,
Angels, peris, genies, and mankind – ‘tis I.
. . . . .
V E R S E ❦ I M A G E 